Radioactive

Today

Well, here I am this Monday morning, still healing from my scalp wound.  We have not yet heard any information regarding my pathology.  Melanoma in situ or not, life carries on.  We will find out soon, I know.  Sometimes the best information is no information.  One way or the other, further operations are inevitable.

About My Faith

On the radio: Mother and Child Reunion by Paul Simon
In my bloodstream: Same Stuff,  plus NyQuill

Before we discuss my new burst of cancer in Tuscaloosa in 1996, and Bob Keith's unbendable belief in God, and my courage to fight, I thought it appropriate to step back and take stock of my religious upbringing.

                                         

My journey of faith was, for the most part, an easy walk.  There were no sink holes in the road of my belief.  The weather was always fair and there were few detours on my religious road map.  At least that was the case until 1962.

That’s the year that my faith was first tested.  I had always believed in God.  Most likely because of my parents' training.  And in those earlier days of my life, religion was taught, not just in church, but at home and in school.  It is hard to believe in this day of political correctness and public avoidance of Christianity at all costs, part of our grade school curriculum was bible studies.

I clearly remember one particular day, that we were not allowed to leave school to go home until we recited, by memory, the names of every book in the bible - both testaments.   There was no consideration for any Jews or Muslims.  And there was no room made for atheists or agnostics.  Hard to believe, huh?

In our little town, there were three Jewish families that I remember and there were no people of color at all.  Orillia was a quintessential white town.  We were mostly taught the history of the British Empire and the creation of Canada.  If you had been conquered by the Brits, you were given substance in the curriculum.  If not, we learned where on the globe you were.  We knew of slavery and the underground railroad and of Canada's role in bringing blacks out of the South, to freedom.  But we never actually saw any.  We learned of other religions, but we had no exposure to them. Orillia, then,  was a small town in many ways.

I had considered myself, for years, a Christian.  Nothing special.  As far as I knew, everybody was the same.  I never really spent much time thinking about it.  I had fun, like most kids.  I was always up for whatever exciting opportunities or misadventures that presented themselves. I didn’t think of myself  as Christian.  I just was.  I did not think of myself as white.  I just was.

Organized religion obviously played some part in my life.  But when you are young, faith is not front of mind.  At least not at the front of my small mind.

However strange it may be, I always felt, in a religious sense, that I had not realized all that I should, or could have been.  I had always admired deeply religious adults.  My own parents did not, or could not, take time away from work to attend our Presbyterian Church. But I seldom missed a service.  Men in their dress suits and polished shoes impressed me greatly.  Each family had their own regular place in the pew.  The men always had a satisfied demeanor.  The women smiled and waved at their friends.  It was, for one hour each week, a place of calm, of comfort, and of contentment.

Thinking back, I remember in 1956, watching  “A Man Called Peter”.  It was not a Roy Rogers, or Hopalong Cassidy or even a Gene Autry movie, but something quite different.  It was the true story about a minister coping with his family and faith and becoming Chaplain of the U.S. Senate.  I was obviously very young, but I absolutely absorbed the story.  This was a man who was married, had children and  was a pastor in his church.  Most striking, was the fact that he had doubts about his role and abilities in all of those things.  I was astonished that Peter and his family talked openly about his feelings and his competence.

We were, at that point, a family of three. We lived together.  We ate together.  And we slept in the same house.  My mom sang and my dad played the piano.  But I have no recollection of any serious dialogue.  We were not at all like Peter's family.

I had never heard my parents argue or discuss their work, their plans, their hopes or their fears.  I was totally uninvolved with their lives.  They loved me dearly and gave me everything they could, but I surely did not know them in any way other than that of provider.  I had no relatives and no frame of reference for family life.  They were two people all on their own, trying to make some kind of place in their new world, with me tagging along.  And I realize now, that they, also, had no family to help mentor them on their journey.  Their financial issues, their work situations, and their own relationship were tightly held.

Peter was not exactly the typical children's movie, but for some reason, one that incredibly affected me.  (I’m too weird even for me sometimes.)  My remembrances of the film were about God and family and how this one man served them both, incredibly well.  Peter, as portrayed in the movie, impressed me greatly - mostly for just being a really good guy, in my ten year old mind.  I envied the intimacy of his family and his connection to God.

I still believe deeply, that you should always, at any cost, do the right thing.  It worked for Peter and he was loved inside his home and beloved outside as well.  He was a different type of hero for me.  A real life role model and most likely the root of my faith.

I never would consider myself devout - for certain, I was not.  I did, however,  attend church weekly,  with, but mostly, without my parents.   When I was much younger, I wanted to be a choirboy - even though I have a terrible singing voice.  The choirmaster solved that problem by first asking if I would mind singing more quietly and soon after that, suggesting that perhaps I might just mouth the words, if that was not a problem.  It took me a little while, but I did eventually get the picture.  I quit the choir - I’m sure to the relief of the instructor -  to cover my own embarrassment.  Good grief.  Give me an "Amen!".  Or at least mouth it for me if your voice is like mine.  Thank you.

I continued going to weekly service for years after that, and truly enjoyed the ritual and the satisfaction of a morning well spent.  I was surely not an ideal Christian, but I certainly believed, if not the exact words of the bible, the messages of love and peace.

My first realization that not everyone who went to church was captured by the sermon, or even at times paying any attention, came to me in 1962. I was in the eleventh grade.

Two of my friends had been killed in a car crash. One of their fathers was sitting beside me at the back of the church, about a week later, waiting, like me, to take the collection.  Our Sunday job.  I was greatly saddened by the death of my friends and could not even look up at him for fear of crying.  I had no clue whatsoever as to how to handle an awkward situation.  And, to me, it was ridiculously uncomfortable.

My protective bubble of silence was broken when he started a conversation.

In our small town, everyone followed  high school sports.  Or at least anyone who read the newspaper would know what was going on.  I was a quarterback and our team had managed to win our game over our inter-city rivals.   He wanted to hear about the game.  I was embarrassed.  I had always  paid attention to the sermon.  I didn't want to be rude by ignoring Reverend Begg.  I usually  learned about the bible's  passages and we always heard a personal story regarding the minister’s life during the previous week.  Some weeks gave me better messages than others, but I listened to every word every week.  So why was this poor man who had just lost his son talking to me when our minister might well be directing his message this week  to the parents of a boy lost and maybe even offering comfort to them in their time of grief.  I didn’t get to hear his sermon that week.  Who knows if the message was relevant.

My friend’s father just might have needed to hear from one of his son’s friends.  On that day I might have given him more normalcy than did the minister.  I might have been some small  bridge to his son's life.  That possibility only occurred  to me years later.  At that time, I thought he must be already over the death of his son.  He surely was not.  And now, in reflection,  I realize that today he might still be grieving.

Time does offer  relief and with that, sometimes, better understanding.  Most of us hear, but often don’t listen for the real message.  Who among us can truly  fathom the loss of a child - especially at such a young age.  Given ample time,  I realized that he was likely still in shock and unable to handle anything that day.  His car dealership changed hands several years later and I don’t know whatever became of him and his family.  I hope he found some sort of peace.  Daily life is often tough enough.

Sometimes grief can overwhelm us.  Our lives are instantly changed and our future is bereft of our expectations.  I'm sure many can testify to that.

 Later that year, I talked with our reverend about bible stories.  I don’t know how the subject came about, but I told him that while I did truly believe in the messages, I thought they were meant to be guidelines for our life, and perhaps were not actual events.  He abruptly ended our conversation by telling me that I could not be a Christian if I did not accept every word as it was written.

 I stopped going to church and did not return until 1972.

What could have been the starting point of a great life lesson and discussion of shared values, never happened.  My regret of that seminal moment in my life, was that the reverend had missed an incredible opportunity to listen and learn and then to teach and sway the student.  We both could have been so much better if we had opened our ears and our hearts to each other.  I’m sure that he, if he is still alive, will not even remember that talk that meant so much to me and so little to him.

There is so much that I have learned since then.  If we take the time to listen to others before we start to tell them what we expect, our experiences can be so much more rewarding.  There can be less hurt.  There can be more understanding.  There could be so much more civility.  There can be a greater chance for love.

Could we give it a try?

You know, I do my best not to judge anyone on religious grounds.  I know there are those who distance themselves from people who do not share the same faith, and those that think people of any faith are whackos.  I know people who abhor those who believe in God and overtly mock them and their beliefs.  I just told you that I am a "Burger King" Christian - "I want to have it my way".  To many, that might not be enough.  To others, too much.  What I fundamentally believe, is that it is not my job to hurt anyone.  Treat everyone with respect and dignity.  Show grace.

Please take the time to express your views on this blog.  I welcome your comments and I would like, with your help, to shift this monologue towards dialogue.


Thank you for listening.